Listen to it,

creak and moan.

That house on the hill,

once called a home.


In its corridors,

dark shadows lurk.

Gliding in and out,

never to be a dearth.


Its floorboards are ragged,

worn and splintered.

The walls are rotting,

weak and withered.


Glass covers the ground,

from windows shattered.

The slivers glitter,

in the moonlight’s pattern.


They are tears crying,

for a past forgotten.

Memories have faded,

love has fallen.


In the fury of the wind,

I watch it sway.

How much longer

can it remain?


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